


It's Such a Feeling (I Can Hide)

by shinodabear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-11
Updated: 2011-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinodabear/pseuds/shinodabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all get lonely sometimes. (I think you'll understand.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Such a Feeling (I Can Hide)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the LJ comm slashthedrabble challenge, "Touch"

He’ll sit alone and think to himself: What would it be like? The answer is easy to determine, but he’s always distracted from finding out. His mobile rings. The telephone rings. The doorbell rings. There’s a new email message waiting in his inbox. A letter came in the post. He was meant to meet someone five minutes ago. There’s always something else to be doing. It’s a booming business he’s involved in, after all.

The thought leaves him.

He’ll sit beside Moran, good, dutiful Moran, and sometimes he’ll wonder: What would it be like? He’ll glance at the colonel’s hand, fingers curled slightly on the tabletop, and think about how easy it would be to find out. All he would need to do is to move his arm and grasp Moran’s fingers, twist them until they curled around his own and pull their palms together -- and wouldn’t it be satisfying to hear the instinctual cry of protest fall from Moran’s lips and the distinct sound of his jaw snapping shut when he realized that anything Moriarty asked for was always handed over with a beautiful “yes, sir.”

The urge passes.

But sometimes, when he is feeling particularly reflective, he will recognize that there is an ache, an actual, physical ache in his chest and in his hand that signals a need for connection. It’s funny, really. He’s always been alone, but he is never lonely. The world is populated by idiots, tiny little idiots who need Moriarty to make their petty problems disappear. But who will take care of Moriarty’s problems? (He nearly has Moran killed on the grounds of his hands always being visible, but decides instead to order him to invest in some clothing with pockets. The decision benefits them both, in the end, for it is Moran who stumbles across little Molly Hooper’s blog, the one with Sherlock’s name written all over it.)

Sweet Molly. Her hands were so soft and small, gentle things that asked for something neither he nor Sherlock were willing to give.

Sherlock. He’s noticed Sherlock’s hands, oh yes. He's watched them as they danced in the air, gloved to hide themselves from view. They are long, elegant things that call to his own in a way that Moran’s and Molly’s never did. They are hands that will take him apart, slowly and efficiently, and put his every flaw and perfection on display until, upon the discovery of everything, they discard him.

He is very careful not brush against Sherlock once as "Jim.” He doesn’t know what would happen if he did.

When they finally meet, he approaches Sherlock with his hands in his pockets and does not dare to scrape one knuckle against Sherlock's skin upon taking the missile plans. Still, the temptation to reach out and pluck the gun from Sherlock’s hands and replace it with his own hand never leaves him.

What would it be like? _What would it be like?_ He wonders if Sherlock asks himself the same.


End file.
